


Dreams of Stabbing

by grosss



Series: Submissive Gerard Verse [3]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Bottom Gerard Way, Dom/sub, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Revenge Era, Sub Gerard Way, Taco Bell, Van Days, brief mention of bert mccracken, hey ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22378978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grosss/pseuds/grosss
Summary: They're in Nebraska, the worst state to be bored or horny or lonely in, and Gerard feels like he's caught a virus, and by that, he feels like his brain has been infested with parasites, like his limbs have lost all feeling, and- there's no delicate or gruesomely poetic way to put this- like he's so constantly turned on and on edge that it's hard to sleep at night and he's eternally grateful that baggy pants are in style.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Series: Submissive Gerard Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567909
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	Dreams of Stabbing

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like this as much as Bring More Knives or Molasses, but I wanted to get something else out there. Feedback and suggestions are encouraged! What do you want to see next? I might add another small chapter to this, or I might write something else in this -verse. This takes place on the same tour as the other two, but in the past. After Molasses and before Bring More Knives. I'm open to writing most things that fall under my personal moral umbrella. Have at it. Enjoy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and the characters described here are only fictionalized versions of real people, and are not meant in any way to represent any living persons or their personal lives. It's all completely fake and came out of my bullshit brain. 
> 
> Am I too lazy to title this properly? Yes. Ignore it.

They're in Nebraska, the worst state to be bored or horny or lonely in, and Gerard feels like he's caught a virus, and by that, he feels like his brain has been infested with parasites, like his limbs have lost all feeling, and- there's no delicate or gruesomely poetic way to put this- like he's so constantly turned on and on edge that it's hard to sleep at night and he's eternally grateful that baggy pants are in style. 

It's been a week since his germ-infested whack sesh in the truck stop bathroom, and three days since Frank, equally drunk as he was at the time but sober enough to know better, had slammed him up against the wall and kissed him, a firm, pointed kiss, as much about drunken friendship and kindheartedness that could only come from Frank as it had been about lust and the fact that Frank was weirdly strong for his size. 

It's been three days since that kiss that left the back of his skull aching and his hips bruised from determined fingers, and two since Gerard had, again with a few drinks in his system, laid in the cool grass of the parking lot and told him everything.

They're stuck in Nebraska in the muggy spring, and Gerard feels like the very fabric of his being has been ripped apart. 

He draws to pass the time, predictable sketches turning into morbid psuedo-porn, his lyric notebook becoming trashed with a full page of babble about wanting Frank to fuck his mouth or whatever, and how, if given the chance, he'd let Frank do anything short of puke on him, and maybe even that wouldn't be so bad.

\---

Frank balances his cigarette in between his pointer and middle finger, holding his water bottle with his same hand and taking a long drink. They aren't supposed to smoke backstage, but the hallway reeks in a way that tells him everyone does anyway. 

He's more of a casual smoker, smokes at parties and after shows and on Sunday mornings when his anxiety is acting up and the day moves too slow. He takes a quick glance at Gerard. He's doing the exact same as him, only he'd opted to dump his own water bottle over his head instead of drinking it, and he's on his fifth cigarette of the day instead of his first. 

If the situation were different, if Frank's thoughts hadn't just been put through the pasta maker wringer of playing a show, he might have said, "I love you." 

That wouldn't have been out of place, either. Frank tells him that all the time; he loves Gerard, it's no secret. Sometimes that means running into gas stations to pick him up cigarettes and blue Gatorade and the nasty grilled egg sandwiches that make Frank gag when Gerard is too lazy to get out of the van; other times it means succumbing to Gerard's pleas and covering him in bruises as he hurriedly jerks off in whatever affordable hotel room they've been able to snag for a night. 

Gerard looks gorgeous, cheeks flushed pink and hair plastered to his forehead, still wearing his goddamned leather jacket for some reason. His jeans hug his hips and his shirt is bunched up around his stupid fucking bat belt buckle that he hasn't been able to get rid of. Frank bites his tongue before he says something obscene, instead finishing his cigarette and stepping into Gerard's personal space, plucking his own cigarette from between his red lips. Gerard's taking too long, thoughts elsewhere. Frank holds the wet filter in his mouth, taking a drag and smiling at the way Gerard's eyebrows come together in protest, and at the way he doesn't move to stop him, either. 

Frank leans in, eyes flitting around Gerard's flushed face, slowly and carefully blowing a mouthful of smoke into his face, watching his eyes fill with unwanted tears. 

He still doesn't protest, just blinks away a few stray tears. Frank reaches up and wipes at them with his thumb, dragging his fingers over Gerard's face until his thumb and forefinger rest on his pouted lower lip. 

\---

Gerard leans his head back against the wall, letting Frank toy with him, involuntary tears quickly drying on his cheeks. Some nights their shows leave him exhausted and nervous, but tonight, as he sometimes is, he's on an adrenaline high that feels better than anything he's ever swallowed. He's floating, he's sober and his mind seems to be racing of its own accord. Gerard blinks away the smoke, carefully grabbing ahold of Frank's free hand, his callused fingers dragging along Gerard's own unblemished ones. 

He focuses his gaze on Frank's face, trying to breathe evenly. The feeling of Frank's hand in his alone definitely isn't getting to him. No, he's a grown up, touch alone would never make his legs feel so weak. Between playing a show, the nicotine, and Frank's hands on him, his heart never got a chance to slow down. He feels woozy, like his legs might fail him completely, and his brain sends him rapid-fire images one after the other: him falling against Frank. Him falling to the floor, ever so conveniently on his knees, which would be great, because then he could- 

Gerard stops himself, feels a little stupid that he's half hard already, and Frank hasn't so much as kissed him yet. Frank is shaking his head at him with a familiar smirk, mumbles,  
"Jeez, you're too easy," and Gerard is rolling his eyes at him and tugging on his hand towards the direction of their dressing room, the reason why he'd grabbed ahold in the first place. He pulls him inside and locks the door, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he faces him. 

"I'm not doing anything out there, you know that." His eyebrows come together in concentration, wants Frank to take him seriously, despite everything.

Frank studies him, a shit-eating grin slowly forming on his face. "Really? Didn't you pee in the bushes outside of a Taco Bell last week?" 

Gerard only frowns again. "Nobody saw me, that's a whole other thing." 

He's serious, but Frank is tugging at his clothes, telling him to "be quiet" and "stop worrying" in that soft voice of his, backing him up so that his back is flush with the wall, and he doesn't mind that, either. Frank's teeth are buried deep in the skin of his neck, gnawing at him, and he closes his eyes to focus on the sensations of his body being ripped apart. 

Frank is still tugging at his jacket, yanking his shirt out from under the safety of his belt, and he flinches as Frank's hands brush against his groin. 

"Frank-" His voice comes out more fucked than he intends, and he clears his throat, cold air and warm fingers hitting his stomach. "Fuck, be careful." 

He scoots himself forward, tries to secure one of Frank's legs between his own, but Frank is pushing him back again, one hand on his chest, dangerously close to his throat. "Uh-uh." 

Frank's still busy with the tangle of clothes, picking at buttons at the same time he's trying to peel Gerard's jacket off of his shoulders, at the same time he's trying to undo his belt with one hand. "Don't know why you always have to wear so many goddamn layers." He slides a hand underneath Gerard's shirt, still half un-buttoned, letting it bunch up around his waist. 

Gerard feels short nails dig into his side, and he sucks in a sharp breath. "I just like to." He sighs, feeling the color rise in his face. "Makes me feel secure, and-" Frank is pulling on his hair, impatient, and Gerard swears. "-and I can wear more cool shit this way." 

Frank isn't listening, leaving little half-moon nail-shaped bruises in the soft flesh of his side. He can't see, but he hopes. God, he hopes. 

Frank gets his shirt collar down, bites at his shoulder. Gerard closes his eyes again. "I was thinking about vests. For gigs." Gerard's voice comes out all wrong again, quiet and shaky. 

"Uh huh." Frank still isn't listening, brushing his free hand against the front of Gerard's jeans. 

"Like." Gerard swallows thickly. "Like, bulletproof vests? I think that'd be kind of sweet." 

Frank wrinkles his nose. "Like the police?" 

Gerard shakes his head, hair slapping his cheeks. "No, like...I don't know. Like. We're bulletproof? Or something." 

Frank shakes his head, hand wrapping around Gerard's cock through the fabric. Gerard thinks he catches Frank mouthing a silent "fuck" as his hand makes contact, and Gerard grins, because, yeah. He's big. Sometimes he thinks it's his only asset. 

"Will you shut up? We can talk about that later." Frank says it to his crotch, eyelids heavy.

Gerard does. He focuses on Frank, the little shit, stupid kid, all five feet and six inches of him, probably capable of more damage than Gerard has ever endured. More than his hookups in college, more than that time he let Bert tape his wrists together while he sucked him off in a venue bathroom, which almost makes him cringe, only because of the location. Gerard doesn't know why he always ends up in bathrooms. He hates it, it makes his skin crawl. He'll have to work on that. 

Frank swears, still picking the buttons of Gerard's shirt open, his jacket now dangling from his elbows. His eyes rake over Gerard's exposed torso, his boxers that are bunched up above his sagging pants, pinprick bruises and fingernail lines on his sides, rounded stomach rising and falling with every shaky breath. "Christ." 

Frank stares, hungry and a little bit awe-stricken, and Gerard scoffs. He's seen him naked plenty of times, it's nothing new, nothing sexy. He likes the attention though, lives for it. Frank isn't the first person to think that of him. Maybe he is. 

He reaches down to slide his hand inside his own underwear, feels like there might be a medical emergency if he can't, but Frank is grabbing his hand, yanking it away from his dress pants that are sliding down his hips, pinning it to his side. 

"Uh-uh." Frank takes his hand away, backing off slowly, as if making sure Gerard understands. 

"Fuck, you like that way too much." Frank is staring at him in awe, and Gerard can only nod, hair falling into his eyes. 

"What if-" Gerard's mind is spinning too fast, fantasies dripping into his reality, snippets of old lovers and the feeling of gravel beneath his knees. "If I'm." He swallows, eyeing Frank. They never talked about this, not explicitly. "If I'm good," he stares at Frank, a silent plea. The words are making his dick start to leak into his boxer briefs, and maybe he kind of likes that. 

He's not about to misjudge. 

"If I'm good," He starts again, and yeah, he has Frank's attention now. "Can I touch myself?" 

Frank is staring at him open-mouthed, which almost makes Gerard laugh. 

Frank straightens up, looks like someone just told him he can go hod wild at Guitar Center on an unlimited budget. "If you're a good boy, we'll see if I let you finish at all." 

Frank reaches up, fingers tangling in his hair, almost stroking the side of his head, staring up at him with big eyes. "That okay?" 

Gerard nods again. "Yeah, fuck. Yeah. Yes sir." His mouth feels dry, and he's confused, because he feels like he should be salivating. He thinks for a moment that he will pass out, and they'll have to do this tomorrow. He doesn't want that. 

"If I'm not, you can..." Gerard pauses. He hates the word "punish", it feels tacky and stupid coming from his mouth. "You can do whatever you want, fuck. You can hit me for all I care, I really don't-" He's whining, and he silently curses himself for folding so easily, doesn't know why his guitarist has to much power over him. He's such a slut for this. He goes for stupid again, he goes for tacky, because his brain is short-circuiting and he wants to suck Frank off yesterday. "You can do whatever you want."


End file.
